


The Difference Between Literal & Metaphorical Is Like The Difference Between Life & Death

by WritingSinsAndTragedies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Somewhat major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingSinsAndTragedies/pseuds/WritingSinsAndTragedies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When John said that Sherlock fell for him, he wished he meant it metaphorically." Short angsty Johnlock drabble set during "The Reichenbach Fall."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference Between Literal & Metaphorical Is Like The Difference Between Life & Death

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic uploaded to this site and also my first Johnlock story. Hope you enjoy reading this and then drowning in your own tears *maniacal laughter that sounds vaguely like sobbing as well*   
> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor their modern portrayal. The former of which, of course, belongs to ACD while the latter is owned by the creaters of the television series, Gatiss and Moffat. Still, I hope I did the high-functioning sociopath and his loyal soldier justice.  
> Important: Set during the final scene of "The Reichenbach Fall."

When John said that Sherlock fell for him, he wished he meant it metaphorically. He wished he meant that Sherlock fell _in love_ with him—that one day out of the blue, between scurrying all throughout London trying to find a man wearing khaki shorts and a stained purple tie ( _just another one of Sherlock’s crack-pot theories that had the uncanny possibility of being right,_ John thought with nothing but exasperated endearment), Sherlock’s body stiffened with realization as he abruptly turned around to face his companion, hands grasping the sides of John’s face and pulling him down into a startling, bruising kiss.

“What was that for?” John wished he had the opportunity to ask breathlessly after Sherlock had finally released him.

“Science.” Sherlock would say flatly, but his eyes would be gleaming with vulnerability and longing. John wished he could have laughed and kissed the doubt off the smart-arse’s face.

John wished he meant that as their romance full of blood stained riddles and clever psychopaths grew with every mercifully passing day, he could have seen the way Sherlock’s face would soften, as if it were gradually occurring to him that their doomed relationship just might make it after all. John wished he meant that Sherlock would slowly stop seeing John as just a living skull to talk to and the ever occasional equal and start seeing him as something brilliant—something beautiful.

John wished he meant that Sherlock would de-freeze his heart from its icy prison and let it pulse to life again, giving it to John in that careless, indifferent way of his as he pretended it wasn’t a big deal even though that was the farthest from the truth. John wished he meant that Mycroft received the ultimate bait to get a rise out of his ever emotionless little brother, and even though Sherlock would complain loudly that he was more trouble than he was worth, he would whisper into John’s neck later that night in bed so soft, each time John would think he just dreamed it, _“Don’t ever leave me.”_

John wished he meant he had the opportunity to change the great man that was Sherlock Holmes into his lover just as easily as he had changed him into his best friend. John wished he meant that they had the chance to do all of these things if only that one simple phrase was only metaphorical.

But it wasn’t. It was anything but as John looked up and saw Sherlock—brave, brilliant, beautiful Sherlock—teetering on the edge of a building, his cellphone pressed tightly against his ear as he told John that he was a fraud, a liar. That he filled with nothing but cheap tricks.

His choked words were saying all of this in a hushed, reluctant hiss, but his tone was conveying a silent apology and declaration that this was sadly the end of the game. He was apologizing because he thought he lost, and John didn’t know how to tell him that he was the biggest winner out of them all. John didn’t know how to do anything except shake his head in childish denial and plead Sherlock to _please stop, don’t do this, I believe in you._

And as their eyes met one last time—mournful gunmetal blue meeting bewildered soft brown, John knew he meant it both ways. So with that astounding realization bouncing around in his head, he watched helplessly as Sherlock jumped.

**Author's Note:**

> Any sort of feedback is both welcomed and appreciated. Thank you.


End file.
